


It’s the Sweetest in the Middle

by MachaSWicket



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene, SPOILERS ABOUND, Shameless Smut, aka round two, episode "The Fallen"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 03:35:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3835495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY: <b>Spoilers for "The Fallen</b>.  <i>She just had an epic, Oliver-induced orgasm -- well, two actually -- but her body is buzzing for more of him.</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It’s the Sweetest in the Middle

**Author's Note:**

> THANKS to youguysimserious for cheerleading and betaing. :)
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Not my characters. Title from Beyonce's Blow.

As it turns out, her first time with Oliver is _not_ an adrenaline-fueled frenzy in the foundry, hoping like hell that Diggle doesn’t walk in on them.

It’s nothing she would have ever imagined -- well, okay, _maybe_ the sappier parts of her brain could’ve dreamed up with the candlelight and the silk sheets. But even with her excellent imagination, she couldn’t have ever conjured the rest of it up -- an exhausting international trip, Thea’s addled resurrection, paternalistic proclamations from Ra’s, _being in the mountainside headquarters of the freaking League of Assassins_.

None of this is how she would’ve chosen to start something with Oliver, but she has pushed logic to the side. Logic has no place here in Nanda Parbat, so she is operating on pure instinct. Pure desire. 

It’s working out pretty well for her so far.

She grins at the ridiculously ornate chandelier hanging above Oliver’s bed, her arms tightening around him. She can’t let him go, won’t move an inch from where she lies mostly underneath him, his weight a pleasant anchor to reality, his huge hand splayed flat along her ribcage and his face pressed to her neck. His breathing is still a little unsteady, warm puffs of air against her skin, and it makes her shiver.

She’s never had such soul-shattering sex -- it was transformational for her, making her believe in illogical things like finding a home in someone else. 

But as focused and sacred as it’d been between them? As _real_ and right as it’d felt when he slid into her for the first time, and brought her to orgasm (twice), and groaned her name as he’d come inside of her? Now -- afterwards -- lying flat on her back in sated bliss, his warm, huge, firm body half on top of hers...

Well, she feels _amazing_.

Euphoric.

Giddy and light despite the craziness outside of this lush room. And, yes, massively turned on. Still. Again. As ever.

It’s not helping her at all that Oliver can’t stop moving his hands over her body. Or maybe it’s _totally_ helping her that he’s got one hand under her back, the other tracing patterns on her hip.

“Love you,” Oliver whispers into the hollow of her throat, his scruff scratching just enough to make her shiver. The warm palm of his hand is smoothing ever-so-slowly from her waist up onto her rib cage. “You’re beautiful,” he says, then nips where her neck meets her shoulder. Where he’d spent an inordinate amount of time and attention as he moved inside her. When he hadn’t been kissing her, he’d been nibbling and sucking and licking at that same spot on her neck, just below the edge of her jaw.

She can tell from the sting when he kisses that spot again that he’s left a mark. 

It probably shouldn’t turn her on, but the thought of his mark on her skin has her shifting a bit beneath him, the sheets whispering as she moves. Oliver lifts his head, pinning her with an inquisitive look, one eyebrow arching up in a way that really, really, _really_ works for her. She can feel the flush on her cheeks, the heat pooling low in her belly. Her nipples harden against his chest.

And then his lips quirk in some combination of smugness and amusement. “Really?” he asks, the hand that had been moving idly along her side sweeping up to her breast. He palms her, then squeezes gently. When she arches into his touch, Oliver’s smile widens, turns a little playful, and Felicity can’t help the way her hips shift in response.

She _just_ had an epic, Oliver-induced orgasm -- well, _two_ actually -- but her body is buzzing for more of him. She would probably feel embarrassed about it, but Oliver is already leaning up to kiss her in that incredibly intense way of his. And it’s nice to finally confirm that, yes, indeed, Oliver _does_ focus just as single-mindedly in bed as he does in other areas of his life. He’s an incredibly physical man, a loving man, and a gifted, _generous_ man in bed.

 _Thank God_.

Felicity doesn’t realize she’s moved until she’s rolled onto her hip with her leg around his waist, her breasts pressed flush against his chest. His really firm, really solid, really comfortable chest. 

Oliver’s big hand trails down her hip, cupping her ass and holding her against him, even as he chuckles into her mouth.

Felicity pulls back to give him a very fake glare. “Don’t hate, just because I can keep going all night.”

Oliver beams at her -- just _beams_ \-- and she’s so undone by the sight of him relaxed and really, truly happy that she nearly misses his retort. “You mean you can keep _coming_ all night.”

She squeaks something that doesn’t resemble words, because he’s shifting, rolling her onto her back and settling between her legs. When she gets her bearings, he’s gazing down at her from inches away, his smile soft and sweet and just a little dirty. She spreads her legs, brings her knees to his hips in response. Arches up.

“Is that a promise?” she asks with a smirk. And she can’t believe they’re so light, so free with each other, here in the midst of everything. But she’s still floating on a cloud of orgasms and perfectly raspy stubble, so she just skims her fingernails up along his sides and around his back, reveling in the way his eyes darken.

He’s practically growling when he responds, “Fuck, yes.” And then he’s kissing her, wet and messy, and she can feel him start to stir against her.

Before she can congratulate him on his impressive refractory period -- or happily reflect on what a blessing it is for _her_ \-- he’s shifting against her. The feel of his warm, rough skin sliding against hers makes her tightens her knees against his ribs, arching up off the mattress, wanting every inch of her body to be touching him. 

“Felicity,” he gasps, and then his mouth is on her breast, the warm, wet heat of his mouth engulfing her nipple. 

She’s pretty sure she whimpers. She _knows_ her fingers are digging into his back, urging him closer, wordlessly asking for more, and he doesn’t disappoint. She’s always been a little obsessed with his hands, wondering if the strength and dexterity he’s earned perfecting his archery form would translate into talent in bed. (It has. Oh, how it has. He got her off with his fingers once already.) 

But what has all of Felicity’s attention right now is that Oliver has quite the oral fixation. He’s had his mouth on her body the majority of the time they’ve been in bed together, and she is _not_ complaining.

Felicity would be writhing beneath him just from the insistent attention his lips and tongue are paying to her breasts, but his weight is pinning her to the silky sheets in the most satisfying way. She tries to tilt her hips, get _some_ pressure where she craves it, but he doesn’t give an inch. 

She grumbles her displeasure and he’s laughing again, his tongue painting hot, wet lines beneath her breasts as he slowly makes his way south. 

She might lose her mind. She really, honestly might go crazy with lust before he reaches his goal. Her fingers are digging into his shoulders, her hips rolling as much as possible beneath him, desperate for pressure, for _something_ , when Oliver’s comforting weight lifts.

Blinking her eyes open, she sees him kneeling between her spread legs, his hands resting lightly on her kneecaps. He looks amazing, the soft, shifting light from the candles accenting the familiar ridges of his abs in this new, and oh-so-very-welcome context. The sight of him aroused and intent on pleasing her is beyond erotic, beyond anything her vivid imagination has ever dreamed up. “Oliver,” she gasps, and she is ridiculously wet already. The naked hunger on his face as his gaze trails down her body, it makes her moan.

“So fucking gorgeous,” he mutters, and then he’s pressing her legs up and open even further. Before she can prepare herself, his tongue is on her clit.

“Oh,” she moans, her hips jerking against him. He is doing such amazing things with his mouth that she almost doesn’t feel the gentle skim of his fingertips along her inner thighs. But the contrast of his determined mouth and his soothing hands-- “This might _kill_ me,” she gasps out. “I might die.”

She can feel the hot huff of his breath against her as he chuckles. It just kicks her arousal up another notch. 

“Just wait,” she warns, “until -- oh! that’s-- _yes_!” His tongue licks a devastating path, and she sucks in a breath, trying to finish her threat before she comes, “just wait until I have my mouth on-- Oliver!”

He lifts off of her for just a moment, his fingers tightening on her thighs, and she jerks her head up, panting, and looks down at him. His mouth is wet, his eyes blazing, and her hips buck a little just at the obvious lust on his face. “Can’t fucking wait,” he grits out, and then his hands clamp on her hips to hold her still, and his tongue is inside of her, and she’s pretty sure her vision whites out.

“Oliver,” she says. Begs. Whatever. 

He shifts, and then two fingers are inside of her, thrusting and searching and caressing. His tongue flicks at her clit, and she loses the ability to form words. She is nothing but reaction and lust now.

When his fingers curl a little inside of her, he sucks on her clit and she is coming harder than she thought possible, her back arched off the bed, her hands grasping the sheets for _something_ to hold onto as wave after wave of bliss rolls through her.

She’s laughing as she comes down, her chest still heaving, her hands partially covering her face. Oliver is still between her legs, pressing soft, wet kisses to her center and holding her trembling legs steady. 

“Wow,” she manages. “A-plus. Gold star.”

Oliver laughs against her, and then he tongues her clit and she yelps. She looks down at him and he’s smirking. “What happened to all night?”

Felicity reaches out, smoothing her fingers through his hair, along his stubbly cheek, and she knows she’s grinning at him. “Come here,” she orders, and he crawls up her body immediately. This view -- lying beneath him, with the impressive bulk of him blanketing her, his firm abdomen pressed to hers -- it’s her new favorite thing in the world. 

They kiss again, and it’s slow and sweet, but she can taste herself on his lips, and he is hard and ready. So she taps on his shoulder and he rolls to the side, pulling her with him so he never has to stop kissing her. And she thinks that, actually, his unending kisses are her new favorite things.

Once he’s on his back, Felicity shifts, breaking the kiss so she can sit up and straddle his thighs. She hasn’t had nearly enough time to appreciate his cock, so she takes him in her hand. He’s big and firm and warm in her grip, soft over steel, and she traces her fingertips lightly down his length. Oliver groans and watches her with wide, dark eyes, his mouth open. 

He’s beautiful, laid out before her, his fingers gripping her knees. Slowly, Felicity runs her free hand along his abdomen, down to his hip. His breathing speeds up as she explores him, and she can’t help but stroke him a little more firmly. 

Until he lets out a breathy, “Felicity,” and then all of her plans to tease him, taste him, tongue him -- she forgets all of that, lifting up and shifting so she can take him inside. 

As she eases onto him, Oliver sits up, his arms hauling her flush against his chest. She tilts her chin down and he leans his head up, and they’re kissing again, and she never wants to stop. She wants to live here, in this moment, with him deep inside of her, and her breasts against his chest, and his mouth working frantically against hers.

He doesn’t have much leverage, and she doesn’t want to stop kissing him yet, so their movements are small and slow. Felicity just rocks on him, swiveling her hips. She can feel him along every inch of her body -- her knees bracketing his hips, his hard abs pressed into her stomach, her arms looped around his neck, her fingers in his hair and pressed to his spine. 

Oliver rocks up into her, his palms smoothing along her back before drifting down to cup her ass. His kisses are getting more desperate, more sloppy, and she pulls away, licking along the edge of his jaw just to feel his stubble on her tongue. 

“Lay back,” she whispers in his ear. 

He sucks her nipple into his mouth, nips her collarbone, before sinking back onto the mattress. Her gaze fixates on the way his abs flex as he moves, and then he’s chuckling. “Better than the salmon ladder?” he asks.

Felicity lays her palms directly on the ridges. “Hell, yes,” she confirms with a happy sigh. 

He thrusts up into her, and the feel of him hitting her deep plus his muscles flexing beneath her palms -- she didn’t think she could come again so quickly, but she’s suddenly pretty close. She leans forward, planting her hands near his shoulders, and the change of angle makes them both groan. She works him harder, moving so her clit rubs against his hard body on each stroke. Her entire body starts to hum.

“So perfect,” Oliver mutters. “Felicity, you--” He breaks off with a groan. His hands are moving again, tracing hot paths along her rib cage, cupping her breasts, squeezing her thighs. He’s meeting her movements with his own, and panting with the effort, and it’s the hottest thing in the world.

She’s so close. _So_ close, and her movements are losing whatever finesse they may have had. “Oliver,” she gasps. “I-- I’m--” But she can’t verbalize this heat sparking through her veins.

“Felicity,” he grits out, and his thumb is on her clit, circling, and she collapses down onto him, trapping his hand and not even caring because she is coming again, and he is kissing her through it, and gripping her hips so he can pump up into her as she shakes and moans on top of him.

Breaking the kiss, he tilts his head back and comes with a shout. Felicity sucks hard on his throat and he jerks against her, panting sharply as his muscles start to relax into bliss. 

Oliver loosens his hold on her, flattening his palms to smooth along her skin. She presses a soft kiss to his neck, right where she’d undoubtedly left a hickey to match what she knows will be on her neck. The thought makes her smile against his skin. 

“You’re phenomenal,” Oliver murmurs, and she will never be tired of the feel of his hands on her skin.

She gives him as much of a hug as she can manage while plastered to his chest -- basically just squeezes his shoulders with her forearms -- and smirks into the crook of his neck. “I guess you’re pretty okay.”

He chuckles sleepily, his arms tightening around her for a moment. “Get up here and kiss me,” he demands.

Normally, she would refuse on principle, but she just so happens to want to kiss him. So she gathers enough energy to move, moaning a little when she slides off of him and shifts to the side. But Oliver has already rolled towards her, his hand caressing her jaw and lifting her face to his for a kiss.

She doesn’t think she’ll ever be tired of kissing him, either. 

The thought that she might not get to kiss him after tonight arrives, unbidden -- an unwelcome ribbon of dread in this perfect moment. Felicity does her best to push it aside and focus on the man in her arms.

He kisses her hard, once more, and then pulls back to watch her with happy, drowsy eyes. “Sleep, Felicity,” he says. 

She nods, shifting to rest her head on his chest. They’ve been traveling and he’s been emotionally distraught, and no matter how much she wants to make love to him over and over again, he needs to rest. She tucks her thigh between his and lays her palm above his heart. “I love you, Oliver,” she whispers.

His breathing is already softening, deepening, but he answers in a drowsy voice, “Love you, F’licity.”

Lying there in his arms as he drifts off to sleep, Felicity’s mind kicks into overdrive. Because this? This is what she wants. Lying here, sated and happy and _together_ \-- this is what she’s been craving. 

This is worth whatever sacrifices she’ll have to make to preserve it.

Oliver is it for her. And she will not leave him in this viper pit.

Felicity blinks back tears and presses a soft kiss to his skin. “I won’t lose you,” she vows. “No matter what.”

END


End file.
